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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29191992">The Dreamers and The Damned</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AteYellowPaint/pseuds/AteYellowPaint'>AteYellowPaint</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Joger Week 2021 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fallen Angel, Early 70s, Fallen Angel!John, M/M, Religious Themes, Twist on Catholic Canon, depictions of violence, injuries</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:47:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29191992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AteYellowPaint/pseuds/AteYellowPaint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He was pushed. By his Father Almighty. At least the God had the decency to look into the angel’s eyes as he did it.</em>
</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>When Roger stumbles upon an injured stranger passed out in the park, his only concern is getting the disoriented and traumatized boy to safety. As the day goes on, he learns that the boy holds more mysteries than he could ever fathom.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Deacon/Roger Taylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Joger Week 2021 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Joger Week 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Dreamers and The Damned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello everyone and happy day 4 of Joger week! This story comes to you today using the prompt "Taking Care." Basically I asked the question "what if the fallen angels/devils were the good guys?" and this is what came of it. It's a little different from what I normally write, but I hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> He was pushed. By his Father Almighty. At least the God had the decency to look into the angel’s eyes as he did it. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The angel wouldn’t say he fell. No. He soared. He soared away from that oppressively perfect place down, down to that filthy hovel full of the lost and the damned, crawling on the crust; who despite everything, preserved and hoped and dreamed.</p>
<p>Earth.</p>
<p>The place his Father had forsaken. The place the angel loved. The place he sacrificed everything for.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> A rebel. A martyr. A treasonist. A devil. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> All names he would gladly bear. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The angel crashed into a shallow pond, only saved from injury by the beat of his wings. When he emerged, his clothes - a pair of white trousers made from the finest linens above - clung to his small frame. His wings hung heavy on his back; the feathers were mangled and dirty, dripping with pond water as he climbed onto the grassy shore.</p>
<p>He pushed his long brown hair out of his face and wiped the water from his eyes. The sun was low in the sky, it’s natural light quickly fading from view. The sun never set at home - the darkness of night was only described in stories. The angel would finally get to see it.</p>
<p>He couldn’t worry about that at the moment, though. He had more pressing matters.</p>
<p>The angel picked a direction and walked. His wings were furled behind him and dragged on the ground, picking up dirt and grass and gravel. His feet stung with each step on the rough pavement as he exited the grassy enclosure onto a busy street.</p>
<p>He took a deep breath. It stunk of garbage and exhaust. He took another. And another. He savored the foul smell, let it fill his lungs. It was disgusting. It was everything his home was not.</p>
<p>The angel avoided broken glass and stones and debris as he walked the streets. The traffic was loud and the headlights were blinding, but still he kept on.</p>
<p>He ignored the stares and the dropped jaws as he walked. He didn’t care if people saw. Most would write it off, anyway. And the ones who believed deserved to know. He would have happily let the whole world know of his home’s existence, show them that the place they sacrificed their happiness to was nothing more than a gilded prison.</p>
<p>The angel finally came upon a restaurant. The people dining on the patio froze as he approached. He gave them a smile, though he knew it did little to ease the fear in their hearts.</p>
<p>He opened the door and went inside. No one stopped him as he walked through the crowded room in search of the kitchen. He didn’t offer smiles, his focus narrowing down into one single-minded determination.</p>
<p>The angel finally found the double doors that would lead him to the kitchen. The clatter of pots and pans and human voices drifted through. He pressed his hand against the wood and pushed.</p>
<p>The room fell silent. He ignored it.</p>
<p>He ran his fingertips against the cool metal of the counters, searching, searching.</p>
<p>And there it was.</p>
<p>A large butcher’s knife gleamed on top of a wooden chopping block. He picked it up and felt its weight in his hand. It would do.</p>
<p>Everyone in the room held their breath as the angel swept his eyes over them. One man still had his hands inside a bowl of marinating meat, a woman’s glasses fogged up as the steam from a pot of boiling water rose in her face, a pimply teenager stood in a puddle of water as the spray nozzle from his dishwashing lay useless in his hand.</p>
<p>And then finally, the angel found the person who would help him. He was a short man with thick arms and greasy brown hair, but most importantly, he wore a small golden crucifix around his neck. The angel smiled.</p>
<p>As he approached, the chef cowered against the food locker, his knuckles white as he gripped onto the handle. The angel looked down into the man’s wide eyes. He kept his wings furled tight against his back.</p>
<p>“Do not be afraid,” the angel said.</p>
<p>The chef nodded as if he didn’t know what else to do.</p>
<p>“Are you devout?” the angel asked.</p>
<p>The chef nodded again. The angel held the knife out to the chef who pressed himself even further into the locker door and let out a squeak. The angel blinked. He did not move until the chef hesitantly wrapped his hand around the handle of the knife. The angel pressed his finger beneath the chef’s chin and lifted his head to meet his eyes once more.</p>
<p>“Cut off my wings.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> It was a battle they would inevitably lose, but they would do anything to hold it off as long as they could. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pain did not exist in the angel’s home, but the foreign sensation wracked his body with the first hack of the knife. A searing, sharp heat ripped through his back and out his limbs. A choked gurgling noise bubbled up in his throat. He collapsed forward where he knelt on the pavement and caught himself with his hands. He felt the warm blood start to ooze out of his back.</p>
<p>The angel didn’t feel another blow. He looked behind himself at the poor chef who was green with sick, and wheezed out, “Don’t stop.”</p>
<p>The chef managed one short nod and the angel dropped his head again, closing his eyes tight in anticipation for the next cut. </p>
<p>He didn’t scream when he felt the next blow. Instead, he let out a low, guttural groan. He heard the crunch of the bone with the next swing and felt stomach acid rise up in his throat. He swallowed it down. With one final blow, the first wing fell away.</p>
<p>He finally screamed.</p>
<p>He clawed at the pavement, ripping the skin of his fingertips and splitting his nails as he caught his breath.</p>
<p>The angel felt the chef gently touch the remaining wing. He couldn’t look back when he whispered, “Do it.”</p>
<p>He tensed when he heard the blade ripping through the air. This time, though, he didn’t scream. He laughed.</p>
<p>He sensed the chef hesitate again, but the angel couldn’t stop laughing when he said, “Keep going.”</p>
<p>Even when his eyes filled with tears, even when he heard the sickening crunch of the knife hacking at his bone, even when the pain shot straight through and twisted his gut, he laughed like a madman.</p>
<p>The angel knew his Father’s game. He wanted to put him in timeout like a child, have him beg for mercy and agree to submit before being allowed back home.</p>
<p>The angel looked into the sky, tears streaming down his face as he cackled and gasped. He welcomed each brutal swing of the blade; for he would <em> never </em> return home.</p>
<p>When the second wing fell away, the angel sobbed. Elation, terror, greif, and joy swirled inside his body which he purged through his tears and his blood.</p>
<p>He felt weightless. He felt free.</p>
<p>The clatter of the knife against the pavement and the sound of the chef heaving behind him finally broke the angel from his ecstatic reverie. He turned around to see the chef braced against the wall, overturning his last meal.</p>
<p>“Would you like me to make you forget?” the angel asked.</p>
<p>The chef looked up at the angel, his eyes swimming with tears. “Please.”</p>
<p>The angel hobbled to his feet. He used his remaining strength to stumble to the chef. When he reached the man, he cradled his face between his hands.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” the angel whispered sincerely.</p>
<p>He leaned down and pressed his lips against the man’s sweaty forehead. When he pulled away, he placed the palm of his hand against the kiss.</p>
<p>“Go back to work,” the angel commanded. The man sighed and fluttered his eyes at the angel, the effects already taking hold. “When you enter the kitchen, you and everyone inside will forget tonight’s events.”</p>
<p>With that, the man’s eyes glazed over and he wordlessly turned around and reentered the kitchen. The angel stumbled back and caught himself against the wall. Even that little bit of persuasion exhausted him. It was a good thing he refused to ever use it again.</p>
<p>The angel huffed a laugh and kicked a lifeless wing. He spit on it for good measure.</p>
<p>He gritted his teeth and walked his hands along the brick wall as he stumbled out of the alley and back onto the street. He left the wings where they lay.</p>
<p>He didn’t look like a crazed man with wings anymore. Now he just looked like a crazed man. He supposed it worked in his favor that most people on earth preferred to avoid rather than help crazed men with blood oozing out of their backs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Free will. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> His Father did not believe they deserved it anymore. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Truth be told, He never believed it from the start. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The angel’s vision began to blur around the edges as he blindly stumbled through the streets. The pain of his back faded to a steady, pulsing burn that was sure to drive him mad. He wasn’t sure where to go, he just needed somewhere quiet.</p>
<p>He finally came upon the park where he landed and walked through the gates. He got off of the pavement and welcomed the soft grass beneath his bare feet as his steps began to slow. His wet hair clung to his face and neck and a chill ran through him as the mid-summer air cooled in the night.</p>
<p>The night.</p>
<p>The angel stopped. He looked up and collapsed to his knees.</p>
<p>He could only see a few of the brightest stars in the city sky, but it was perfect. </p>
<p>The angel guided himself down onto his front, the cool night air offering the smallest relief to his wounds. His breaths began to come out shallow and laboured as he faded into unconsciousness.</p>
<p>He wasn’t sure if it was possible for him to die, but he didn’t care. For if he died, he died a free man.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> The world was a rotten place full of greed and selflessness. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Full of hedonism and dreamers. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Full of despair and laughter. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> But they got to choose. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> They got to choose. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roger was late.</p>
<p>He was very fucking late.</p>
<p>Freddie was going to kill him.</p>
<p>Again.</p>
<p>He was supposed to open the stall thirty minutes ago, but a flatiron disaster had detained him. Roger crunched the burnt ends of his hair between his fingers and winced.</p>
<p>He rounded the corner into the park and began to power walk through. It was early enough that he didn’t need to dodge dog walkers and screaming children on his way. He stopped for a moment to check his watch again.</p>
<p>That’s when he saw it.</p>
<p>Roger practically screamed and clapped his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. He stumbled away, his fight or flight kicking in. It was only when his back hit a trash bin that he snapped out of it.</p>
<p>The sight was gruesome. The person - he couldn’t tell if they were a man or a woman - was sprawled flat on their stomach. Their face was turned towards him, but long, wavy brown hair covered it completely. Their torso was bare and their back was caked with dried blood; the top of their white trousers was stained a horrid rusty red with it. Two ghastly wounds were gouged into their back. Their feet were bare and bloodied as well. Roger couldn’t see the figure moving. Or breathing.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” he whispered to no one.</p>
<p>Roger pushed down his instinct to run and walked step by shaky step towards the person. He bit down on his lip against the erratic breaths trying to escape his lungs as he carefully knelt beside the person. </p>
<p>He gathered a wrist into his hands, the strangers hand flopping limply as Roger pressed his fingers into his wrist. He felt a pulse. It was weak and it was slow, but it was there. Roger breathed a sigh of relief and gently put the arm back down.</p>
<p>He noticed the person’s fingers when he carefully arranged their hand back onto the damp grass. They were cut and ragged with black dirt under the nails that weren’t split. They must have put up a hell of a fight.</p>
<p>He swept the hair out of the stranger’s face. So they were a bloke. They were a beautiful bloke.</p>
<p>He couldn’t have been older than 21, but something in the strong set of his mouth and the slight furrow of his brow even in unconsciousness made him look like he had lived well beyond his years.</p>
<p>“Who the fuck did this to you?”</p>
<p>It looked too brutal to be a mugging. Was it a cult thing? The weird white trousers would suggest so. Or an attempted murder, maybe. Whatever it was, Roger needed to get him help.</p>
<p>Roger brought his hand to his shoulder and gently shook it, wary of disturbing the wounds. He prayed to whatever deity was out there that the stranger would wake up because he sure as hell didn’t have the strength to carry an unconscious person all the way to the hospital.</p>
<p>“Mate,” Roger said. “Mate, are you okay?”</p>
<p>Well that was a stupid question.</p>
<p>He shook the boy’s shoulder a little harder, holding his breath that it wouldn’t rip the delicate clots over the wounds. Roger took to pinching his arm when the shaking didn’t work. He felt bad about it, but he really needed him to wake up. He couldn’t just leave him there. What if the killer came back?</p>
<p>Oh, fuck, what if the killer came back.</p>
<p>Roger doubled his efforts, and after a particularly hard pinch on the inside of his arm, the boy finally stirred.</p>
<p>“Thank fuck,” Roger said. The boy’s fingers twitched against the ground and he scrunched up his face. “Hey, mate, can you open your eyes?”</p>
<p>A strand of hair had fallen back into the boy’s face, so Roger pushed it back with his finger and tucked it behind his ear. He took in a sharp breath and Roger quickly withdrew his hand. Finally, he blinked up at Roger. His eyes were bleary and confused, but sparkled the most gorgeous green.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” Roger blurted out. He cringed at his words. It sounded like something a killer would open with.</p>
<p>To Roger’s surprise, the boy smiled. Somehow, despite being the one with gashes in his back in the middle of a park in London, he smiled like <em> Roger </em> was the curiosity in this situation. Roger froze like a butterfly pinned to a board. He could do nothing but take in that smile. It was crooked and he had the slightest gap in his front teeth - a perfect imperfection.</p>
<p>Roger snapped himself out of it.</p>
<p>“Can you get up?” Roger asked. “We need to get you to hospital.”</p>
<p>“No hospital,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse and dry, like he had been screaming. It sent a chill down Roger’s spine.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“No hospital,” he repeated and coughed as he pushed himself up onto his knees. “Don’t need it.”</p>
<p>“You definitely do, mate,” Roger argued.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>And with that, he staggered to his feet and walked away.</p>
<p>“Oi! Where are you going?” Roger called as he scrambled off the ground.</p>
<p>He just shrugged, the gashes in his back rippling with the movement.</p>
<p>Roger stood in shock before he finally got his wits and began to jog after him. It didn’t take much to catch up - the boy was very unsteady on his feet.</p>
<p>“Mate, listen, please just stop a minute,” Roger said, reaching out to grab his arm. “Do you even know how bad these cuts are?”</p>
<p>The boy huffed. “I know.”</p>
<p>Roger almost wanted to laugh, the whole thing was so surreal. He probably should have let him go, so it was a slight shock to Roger when the next thing out of his mouth was, “If you won’t go to hospital, let me at least clean them for you. They’re going to get infected.”</p>
<p>He narrowed his eyes at Roger. He looked like he was about to turn away again, so Roger quickly added, “I just want to help.”</p>
<p>His expression changed to something akin to wonder, like Roger had done a lot more than awkwardly badger a mutilated stranger into coming home with him.</p>
<p>“Alright,” the boy said softly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roger sat at the edge of his tub and dipped his fingers in the shallow water. It was on the tepid side of warm. He ushered the boy into the small bathroom and had him sit on the edge of the tub and put his feet in the water. He miraculously did as he was told, though he didn’t even bother to roll up the hem of his trousers as he stepped in the water. He sat forward with his forearms on his knees and swept his hair over one shoulder.</p>
<p>Roger grabbed a washcloth and a bar of soap and knelt behind him on the fluffy bath mat. He leaned over the tub and wet the cloth. He took a deep breath. He had a biology degree. He saw worse things on the lab table. He could do this. </p>
<p>Roger started to swipe at his lower back, not quite ready to face the wounds yet. The water rippled with each movement of the boy’s feet and each dip of the rag into the tub. Roger tried his best not to think about how red the water was turning.</p>
<p>“So,” Roger said, breaking the silence to distract them both from the fact that he was wiping at the inflamed skin around the gashes. “You got a name?”</p>
<p>He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Roger was about to repeat the question when he finally spoke up.</p>
<p>“John,” he said and Roger knew he was lying.</p>
<p>Then, he chuckled and said, “John Deacon,” as if it was some sort of inside joke only he could understand.</p>
<p>“Alright then, John,” Roger said, grabbing the iodine and putting some onto a cotton ball. “I’m not going to lie to you, this next part is going to really fucking hurt.”</p>
<p>John nodded and sucked in a sharp breath as Roger started to dab the cotton ball over the wounds. He did his best to be gentle, but John still let out little whimpers when Roger swiped over a particularly raw spot and he could see John doing his best not to tighten his injured hands into fists.</p>
<p>With the wounds cleaned, Roger could see it clearly. They were two symmetrical gashes in angles over his shoulder blades. Whoever did this thankfully didn’t cut into any arteries, but the cuts were still pretty deep. Roger was surprised that they were already starting to scab over; they shouldn’t have been able to do that without stitches.</p>
<p>Roger dug around in the cabinet under his sink until he found the gauze and medical tape his mother sent down with him when he moved into the flat. He wasn’t quite sure how to go about dressing wounds, so he simply placed strips of gauze over the two gashes and put tape wherever he could to hold them down.</p>
<p>“Can you tell me what happened?” Roger asked as he ripped off a piece of tape.</p>
<p>“I cut off my wings.”</p>
<p>“You-- What?” Roger stopped what he was doing and stared dumbly at the back of John’s head.</p>
<p>“I cut off my wings,” John repeated.</p>
<p>“I--” Roger let out a helpless laugh. “I think we need to get you checked out for a concussion, mate.”</p>
<p>John turned over his shoulder and looked Roger in the eye. “I know what I’m saying.”</p>
<p>“Right. Um.” Roger tore his eyes away and went back to taping the last few pieces. “Let’s get you patched up, then.”</p>
<p>Roger finished his work in silence, unnerved with the eerie calm that radiated off of John. The poor bloke was clearly traumatized - Roger didn’t need his Intro to Psych class to tell him that. He couldn’t do much about it, but he could do his part and patch him up.</p>
<p>Once Roger deemed his dressings as good as they were going to get, he reached over and turned on the tap again.</p>
<p>“Wash your hands for me right quick,” Roger explained. “Then I can take a proper look at the damage.”</p>
<p>John nodded and took the bar of soap from Roger. He quickly washed his hands, wincing at the sting of the soap. Once he was done, Roger turned off the tap and coaxed him to scoot over so he could join him on the edge of the tub.</p>
<p>John held out his left hand. Roger gently held his wrist in one hand and checked John’s fingers one by one, manipulating them between his own as he inspected the damage. With the blood and dirt washed away, the damage wasn’t as bad as Roger initially thought. </p>
<p>When Roger looked up, he saw John was wearing that same expression on his face he had back in the park, like Roger was a strange, abstract painting in a museum - confusing but worth cherishing</p>
<p>“I never got your name,” John said with a small smile on his lips.</p>
<p>“Oh.” Roger cleared his throat and looked back down at John’s fingers. “It’s Roger.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Roger,” John said with enough sincerity that Roger’s breath caught in his throat.</p>
<p>Roger simply nodded and went back to work. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Where the bloody fuck are you today?” Freddie’s voice was shrill through the phone.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, I got… distracted on the way to the stall this morning,” Roger said quietly, glancing at his closed bedroom door where he had sent John off with a change of clothes.</p>
<p>“Distracted?” Freddie asked incredulously. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”</p>
<p>Roger huffed a laugh. “You’re not going to believe me.”</p>
<p>“Too bad.”</p>
<p>Roger could practically hear Freddie’s withering stare. It was for that reason he decided to just come out with the truth.</p>
<p>“Like I said, you won’t believe me. But I was cutting through the park today and I found this bloke--”</p>
<p>“A bloke?” Freddie scoffed. “Are you about to tell me you abandoned me for a random hookup?”</p>
<p>“No, you prick!” Roger exclaimed, wincing when he realized how loud he had gotten. He angled away from the bedroom door and lowered his voice. “He was hurt bad; someone had attacked him. He refused to go to the hospital so I brought him back here to at least get him cleaned up. He’s been talking nonsense all morning, he’s clearly scared of whoever did this to him. I just-- I’m sorry I didn’t make it in today, but this has been a little more pressing.”</p>
<p>There was a long pause on the other end and for a moment Roger wondered if Freddie had hung up on him. Then he heard a mumbled and quiet, “Christ, Roger.”</p>
<p>Roger sighed. “I know.”</p>
<p>“That was bloody stupid of you.”</p>
<p>“I-- what?” Roger looked at the phone in disbelief.</p>
<p>“How do you know he’s not the dangerous one?” Freddie chastised.</p>
<p>Roger glanced back at the door before he shook his head.</p>
<p>“Trust me, he isn’t,” Roger said. “You should have seen him. There’s no way he could have done that to himself.”</p>
<p>“Then how do you know whoever did this won’t come after you, too?”</p>
<p>Roger hadn’t thought about that.</p>
<p>“...I don’t.”</p>
<p>“Then why did you do it?” Freddie asked gently.</p>
<p>“I… I don’t know,” Roger said. “I couldn’t-- I couldn’t just leave him.”</p>
<p>Roger heard the click of his bedroom door and looked to see it swing open.</p>
<p>“Listen, I’ve got to go,” he said quickly into the phone, ignoring Freddie’s shouts of protest as he hooked it back onto the wall mount.</p>
<p>John leaned against the doorway to the bedroom. He had on a pair of Roger’s cotton shorts, the firetruck red blazing against his thighs and showing off the pink that was returning to his previously sickly skin. He had knotted the ratty, oversized Pink Floyd t-shirt at his hip, but it rode up on his waist and exposed a small slip of skin. Even the socks Roger had given him were scrunched down around his ankles and added to the overwhelmingly domestic appearance.</p>
<p>It was dangerously attractive - close to cute, even.</p>
<p>Roger shook himself out of it and felt immediately guilty for oogling an injured and traumatized stranger.</p>
<p>“Who was that?” John asked, a small smile on his lips.</p>
<p>“Just my mate.” Roger cleared his throat. “Had to let him know I’m not going into work today.”</p>
<p>John furrowed his brow. “You don’t have to miss anything on my account.”</p>
<p>“No!” Roger exclaimed and jumped to block the door as if John would stride right out - which judging by the way he had been acting up until that point, Roger wouldn’t be surprised if he did. “No, he’ll be fine, trust me.”</p>
<p>John gave him<em> that </em> look again and Roger had never felt more on display. His fingers twitched by his side and he gave John an uneasy smile. “Are you hungry?”</p>
<p>Roger had to stop himself from breathing a sigh of relief when John smiled and said, “I’m starved.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sorry I don’t have much,” Roger said as he pulled down a can of tomato soup from his otherwise bare cabinets. “I was a little short on grocery money this month.”</p>
<p>“You don’t need to--”</p>
<p>“You need it more than me, mate,” Roger interrupted before John could try and deny any more help.</p>
<p>John smiled and for the first time that day, it looked a bit shy. He ducked his head down and let his hair fall in a curtain in front of him. When he lifted it back up, he was back to his calm and aloof self. John picked up the can and leaned back against the counter.</p>
<p>“I’ve never had this before,” John said, turning over the can in his hands.</p>
<p>“Canned soup?” Roger asked, setting a sauce pan on the stove.</p>
<p>John shook his head and passed the can back to Roger. “Back home we only ate what grew in the garden.”</p>
<p>“Can you tell me what happened, then?” Roger asked, using the opportunity to try and get more information out of John. “At your… home, I mean.”</p>
<p>“I went against my father,” John said. “He didn’t like that so he cast me out.”</p>
<p>Okay, so it was definitely a cult thing.</p>
<p>Roger looked back at John. He seemed unnervingly nonplussed about the situation.</p>
<p>“Right.” Roger sighed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roger settled on the couch next to John and turned on the news station - John clearly wasn’t the talkative type and Roger would rather not slurp his soup in silence. He leaned forward onto his knees and tried a spoonful of his lunch while the anchorwoman talked away about the crimes in the area.</p>
<p>The soup wasn’t bad. A little bland, but it wasn’t like he could really afford to splurge on things like seasonings. He ate it mindlessly as the heinous acts from the day before - muggings, murders and the like - were listed off with the same enthusiasm as the DOW tradings.</p>
<p>Roger was about to change the channel when the image cut to a field reporter standing in front of an Italian restaurant in Roger’s neighborhood. He put down the remote and all the blood drained out of his body when the reporter said something about “wings”.</p>
<p>Roger froze, hardly even blinking as the camera zoomed behind the reporter into the alleyway. Beyond the crowd and the police tape, Roger could clearly see a pair of larger-than-life, bloodied and mangled, feathery fucking wings.</p>
<p>Roger almost dropped his bowl onto the carpet. He heard John chuckle beside him, low in his chest and sickeningly gleeful. Roger slowly turned his head to find John staring at the screen wearing a shit-eating grin.</p>
<p>Roger’s chest tightened as Freddie’s warning went ringing through his mind. </p>
<p>“Who the fuck are you?” Roger hissed through his teeth.</p>
<p>John’s smile dropped, confusion clouding his eyes when he looked at Roger. “Are you upset?”</p>
<p>Roger’s jaw dropped and he couldn’t help but huff a bitter laugh. “Obviously.”</p>
<p>“Why?” John asked so genuinely that it made Roger want to explode.</p>
<p>“Why?” Roger yelled. “Because you <em> used </em> me. You-- you--”</p>
<p>“I would <em> never </em> use you,” John said quietly.</p>
<p>John looked hurt, like a wounded puppy, and for a moment Roger felt bad about his accusation. Only for a moment, though.</p>
<p>“You lied to me.”</p>
<p>“No, I didn’t.”</p>
<p>John leaned forward and wouldn’t look at him. Terror and curiosity ripped Roger apart at the seams and if this wasn’t like one of his fantasy novels come to life, he would have done the smart thing and thrown John to the street right then and there. Unfortunately for Roger, he was always a bit too much of a dreamer.</p>
<p>“You have five seconds to explain yourself before I kick you out of my flat.”</p>
<p>John looked at him a moment before he placed his bowl on the coffee table. He leaned back against the couch and curled his legs underneath himself. He picked at his torn nails as he took a deep breath in and he looked small, almost helpless, just like he did that morning in the park. </p>
<p>“I’ve already told you all there really is to know,” John said, lifting his eyes to meet Roger’s. “I rebelled against my father, he cast me out, and so I cut off my wings and left them to rot in that alleyway.”</p>
<p>John rambled off the list of nonsense as if he were explaining his Sunday activities and for some reason, Roger didn’t kick him out, didn’t yell, didn’t drop him off at the nearest psych ward. </p>
<p>Instead, he let out a shaky breath and asked, “Why would you do that to yourself?”</p>
<p>Something dark passed over John’s features. He flicked his eyes back to the television where the field reporter was trying to get an interview with the police on the scene.</p>
<p>“To make a point.”</p>
<p>“But, I--”</p>
<p>“Roger, there are a lot of things in this universe you were never meant to understand.”</p>
<p>Roger scoffed. If there was one thing in the world he hated, it was being spoken down to. Which was why he chose to ignore how outlandish the whole situation was and challenged John instead.</p>
<p>“Try me.”</p>
<p>John raised an eyebrow. He seemed neither affronted, nor impressed, nor anything really. Roger wondered if that aloof veneer was really an act at all, or if Roger was that insignificant that John didn’t waste his energy on fleeting emotions for him.</p>
<p>“Alright,” John said. “What do you want to know?”</p>
<p>“What are you?” Roger whispered. He already had an idea, but he needed to hear it out loud.</p>
<p>“I’m an angel.”</p>
<p>Roger rolled his eyes and laughed out loud. He leaned back into the arm rest and threw his hands up in resignation, frustration, acceptance - he wasn’t sure.</p>
<p>No matter what he did, he couldn’t puzzle John out. He spoke nonsense as fact, so frank in his dealings that Roger had no choice but to believe him. He acted as if nothing mattered and yet treated everything with a sincerity that Roger had never seen before. Something dark and old burned inside him and yet he took in the world with a fresh wonder.</p>
<p>It was infuriating, made even worse by the fact that Roger was drawn to it like a flame. </p>
<p>“And what did you do that was so bad you got kicked down here?” Roger asked, his own inner battle tainting his voice with a sarcastic edge.</p>
<p>John paused for a moment. He looked up at the ceiling and Roger wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to know what was running through John’s mind. </p>
<p>“My father is trying to take away free will,” John finally said, bringing his gaze back down to Roger’s. “I tried to stop him. He didn’t like that very much.”</p>
<p>Roger didn’t know what answer he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. He blinked dumbly as he tried to process what he just heard.</p>
<p>“Free will?” Roger asked, hoping somehow the answer would change.</p>
<p>“It’s a battle that has been raging on since Adam and Eve,” John explained. “I’m not the first to fight it, and I won’t be the last.”</p>
<p>Roger glanced back at the television. They had moved on to the weather forecast. It was meant to rain.</p>
<p>“Will he win?” Roger whispered.</p>
<p>“He’s a god,” John said flatly. “Of course he’ll win eventually.”</p>
<p>“Then what’s the point of stopping him?”</p>
<p>“Because eventually doesn’t have to be today.”</p>
<p>Roger took his eyes off of the television. His heart pounded inside of his ribcage.</p>
<p>“And you gave up heav-- your home for that?”</p>
<p>John nodded, his eyes softening, and Roger finally understood the strange look John was giving him all day.</p>
<p>John saw him-- them-- people, whatever, as something precious, worthy of giving up everything he knew to protect them. Roger blushed and looked down at the cold soup he was still holding. He set it on the coffee table, happy for the excuse to not look at the being in front of him.</p>
<p>“Trust me,” John said, and Roger couldn’t help but look back at him. “My home is nothing more than a pretty prison where your soul will become lethargic and pliant, just how my father wants. Anything is better than that.”</p>
<p>“What’s ‘anything’?” Roger asked tentatively.</p>
<p>John smiled. “What do you think?”</p>
<p>“Don’t make me say it,” Roger snapped. “I feel like I’m in Sunday school.”</p>
<p>John laughed out loud at that; a pure sound of unbridled joy that Roger would begrudgingly describe as angelic.</p>
<p>“Do not ever listen to Sunday school teachers - or priests for that matter; none of them know what they’re saying. They’re just following a book written by a narcissist who sees humans as his little dolls,” John said. He shifted on the couch and propped his arm up on the backrest to face Roger. “Hell is where my father sends the souls he knows will never be tamed. And if I know my brother, it’s nothing like my father describes.”</p>
<p>Roger shifted and brought his leg up onto the couch, his knee digging into John’s thigh. John didn’t shy away.</p>
<p>“So what are you saying?” Roger asked.</p>
<p>John smiled, wide and genuine; there was no hint of scrutiny or observation in it. Instead, it crinkled up the corners of his eyes in a display of childish glee. Roger had never seen a smile more beautiful or bright, and that alone could have convinced him of John’s celestial origins.</p>
<p>“I’m saying to live your life however you damn well please,” John said. “Else this will all be for nothing.”</p>
<p>And the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. John didn’t see Roger as insignificant. He didn’t see this world as insignificant. He simply viewed it through the eyes of someone who had seen it all before - the good, bad, and the ugly - and still believed it deserved one more go-around.</p>
<p>There was something so very human in that.</p>
<p>Roger rested his head against his hand. He didn’t shy away from those intimidating green eyes anymore. He didn’t feel the need to question the mystery. And he certainly didn’t feel bad for oogling.</p>
<p>“And here I thought angels were supposed to be innocent.” Roger smiled.</p>
<p>“I’m older than the sun,” John said. Roger froze when he reached over and brushed a stray lock of blonde hair behind his ear. “Nothing retains their innocence for that long.”</p>
<p>And, well, John <em> did </em> tell him to do as he pleased.</p>
<p>Roger leaned forward, blood rushing through his ears when John didn’t move in but didn’t pull away. He stopped just shy of brushing John’s lips against his, a hand itching to tangle itself in John’s long hair. When John didn’t close the gap, Roger almost laughed; it seemed his thoughts on free will extended to this as well.</p>
<p>Impatience won out and Roger captured John’s lips with his own, breathing a sigh through his nose when he immediately felt a hand cradle his jaw as John moved against him. Roger finally gave into temptation and carded his hands through John’s hair, coming to rest at the nape of his neck as if to hold him there as long as possible.</p>
<p>Roger had never experienced anything like it. His whole being felt like living electricity. His lips tingled and sparks shot down his back and across his shoulders. Even his fingertips buzzed with light. He pulled at John’s hair as he pushed into his mouth, intoxicated with the otherworldly energy coursing through him.</p>
<p>When they finally broke apart, Roger gasped for air, panting much more than should have been necessary for something as simple as a kiss.</p>
<p>“Stay with me,” Roger whispered. He didn’t know if he meant the day or for forever, but in that moment he would have taken anything John gave him.</p>
<p>John’s hand trailed from Roger’s jaw to his neck and came to rest against his chest. That damn smile - the one that haunted him all day, the one that had reeled him in - made its way back onto John’s face.</p>
<p>“Gladly.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes, I shoehorned in that kiss there at the end, but I'm the author and if I say Roger deserves and angel kiss, Roger is gonna get his damn angel kiss! Lol but seriously I hope you enjoyed this fic! Like I said, a little different from my normal writing, but I definitely had fun with it!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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